Page 53 of High-Priority Asset

“Finish shopping, ma’am, and it’ll be here on the counter for you.”

“Thank you.” Isabel strode off and grabbed linguini and a can of tomatoes. She turned to find the rest of the ingredients and spotted the same guy in a black shirt and Dickies strolling past her aisle.

He glanced at her for one heartbeat too long, but he kept going. A creeping tension sent a shiver up her spine when she realized he wasn’t pushing a cart and didn’t have a basket.

Her first impulse was to call Dutch, but she was in a well-lit public place and could handle herself. She didn’t need anyone’s help.

Get a grip, Isabel. You of all people know better than to stereotype that guy. The whole world isn’t out to get you. Only Chad.

She mentally checked off what else she needed and hurried to get the items. As she picked out a couple of salad dressings Dutch might like, the guy with the bandana showed up again. He didn’t look at her. Standing in front of the ketchup, he took a bottle from the shelf and turned it over, as if he was reading the ingredients.

“It’s nothing,” she said to herself, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about the guy.

She went to the produce section. Looking over the herbs, she threw a bundle of parsley in her basket. The main dessert would hopefully be in the bedroom, but they’d cap off dinner with something light. Maybe a fruit salad.

Breezing past the stands, she tossed a ripe variety in her basket. She stopped in front of the cantaloupe, deciding if she wanted to dice one up or simply buy it chopped and prepackaged.

Another customer waltzed up beside her, bumping her basket. A hand with tattoos inked on the back grabbed a cantaloupe. “Do you know how to pick a good melon?” he asked.

She glanced over at the man. The one who looked like a gangbanger and kept popping up in the same parts of the store. He had two teardrop tattoos below the corner of his eye.

“No. Sorry.” Spinning on her heel, she walked away. Forget the melon.

“Hey. Your stuff is ready,” he called to her.

She pivoted and looked back at him. “What did you say?”

“Your seafood.” He hiked a thumb toward the fish department. “It’s on the counter waiting for you.”

All the spit dried in her mouth, but she managed to say, “Thank you.”

It was odd, yes, but he was only being friendly, and she was being ridiculous, right? No need to be rude, as well.

She passed another man who didn’t have a basket or a cart and because he was dressed in business attire, she didn’t question his motives for being in the store.

Isabel grabbed the seafood bundle from the counter in the fish department, tossed it into her basket and went to a register. She loaded her stuff on the conveyor belt, itching to get out of the store. As she bent over to place the empty basket on the floor, she stilled.

At the bottom of the basket was a playing card. She picked it up and turned it over.

Queen of spades.

But it hadn’t been in there earlier when she’d first taken a basket. She was certain.

She dropped the card in the basket and shoved it under the conveyor belt.

Isabel paid, opting for paper bags, and hurried to her car. Hitting the new key fob, the lights flashed on her Maserati, and the doors unlocked. She opened the trunk and set her bags inside. Before closing it, she unzipped her purse and grasped the handle of her fully charged Pacifier.

Better safe than sorry.

Trying to slow her breaths that started coming too quickly, she scanned her surroundings.

No sign of the man.

She slipped inside her car, locked the doors and started the engine. Putting on her seat belt, she noticed something on her windshield, trapped under her wipers.

The queen of spades.

Her whole body went cold, but every nerve pulsed with energy. Isabel looked around outside, twisting in her seat. There was no one near her car, but was anyone watching her? Waiting for a reaction to seeing the card? How did the same queen of spades get on her windshield without her noticing anyone?